


now that I know you

by djhedy



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: I have no idea, Introspection, M/M, Sexual Content, Therapy, being andrew minyard, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djhedy/pseuds/djhedy
Summary: He wants to ask Neil, but he isn’t sure what answer he’ll get.He waits until they’re between classes, when they wander towards the benches to waste away their fifteen minute break. In fact waits until they only have eight minutes left, head counting away the time, watching Neil swing his legs under the bench, as Andrew is sat cross-legged next to him, watching the side of his face.Neil is quiet, almost knowing.Asshole.Andrew says, “Do you know me?”Neil’s legs stop swinging. He says, “What does that mean?”-andrew thinks a lot and neil talks a lot and they end up somewhere in the middle
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 34
Kudos: 534





	now that I know you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/gifts).



> um. i have no idea what this is. moonix, babe *smirk*, this isn't even slightly what i intended to write for you, but have it anyway!
> 
> thanks @neilwrites for the beta and for reminding me im usually better than i think i am <3
> 
> if you want here's the song i listened to entirely on repeat while writing: "I Know You" by Paul Travis  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/1wZa5LHp2fz7y6GpAhqwef?si=GxBv_o4vQaiFOq2Xquulpg

Andrew isn’t nervous. Nerves are for people with positive expectations. He likes his life even, for the most part, excluding a certain ex-compulsive-liar. He likes to know what’s going to happen, which he does, because he spends most of his time observing the people around him, until they become predictable. Bee says that’s what they’re doing in therapy, too, spending their time observing him, so that he can become more predictable.

“Sounds boring, Bee,” he’d said, tongue loose half an hour into the session.

Bee replied, “How is it different from what you said you do with your friends?”

Andrew clucked his tongue, thought, _I don’t want my life to be the same forever_.

When he managed to voice this thought aloud, five minutes later, Bee said, “That’s why we’re here. We’re not observing you _so that_ you become predictable. Predictability is how we even you out, so that you can become other things.”

“Sounds slow,” Andrew said.

“It is.”

That was old news now. Andrew had been in therapy long enough that he got the drill, understood how the game was played and where it was going. He’d seen enough progress to believe in therapy, and that, too, was progress, apparently.

“You can believe things now,” said Bee, a smile on her face. Andrew stared at her. “So maybe, one day, people?”

Andrew sighed and mimicked, “Maybe, one day, people,” because he knew it would make her laugh, and because he knew he didn’t really believe it, and because he knew she knew that, too.

Observe enough and things become predictable.

People, too.

So that you can then become other things.

Change.

Neil Josten jogs into the room with sweat on his brow, stinking of the run he’s just been on, and Andrew is sat on the sofa trying to read his way through an English assignment. He’s a fast reader. He and Neil timed it once, Andrew scanning the first page as Neil had just made his way through the fourth sentence. He knows this about himself, but he doesn’t know why. It doesn’t matter. He wonders whether one day he’ll read enough, remember enough, to push old rememberings out. Bee says no, that’s not how it works. He reads anyway.

This one is about pirates.

Ok so it’s not his English assignment. Eighteenth century British literature is too dry for today.

Neil Josten is saying, “Andrew?”

So he looks up.

He’s observed Neil a lot. Nathaniel, too, though he didn’t care for that much. Remembering Nathaniel means remembering anger, so instead he looks up at Neil’s red face, hot from the weather, from running, from being a pain in his ass, and says, “Yes?”

Neil grins at him. “Hey.”

Andrew narrows his eyes. “You interrupted me.”

“I wanted to say hey.”

Andrew looks back down at his book. “ _Hey_ ,” he mimics.

“You want a drink?”

“Soda.”

A minute later a can of soda is hurled onto the sofa next to Andrew. He doesn’t bother to catch it.

“You know,” says Neil, “what with all your goalie skills I bet you could have caught that.”

“Pirates,” Andrew says, fumbling one hand out to grab the ice-cool soda, pressing it briefly against his cheek and wincing internally at the welcome shock of pain. He knows his face stays blank, knows Neil notices the barely-there shudder anyway. Neil Josten.

He sits next to him, and tries to push his feet into Andrew’s lap. Andrew shoves them away in one movement and Neil raises his eyebrows at him. Andrew rolls his eyes. “You stink. Go have a shower.”

Neil relaxes, and turns in the sofa, putting his feet up so he can push his socks against Andrew’s thigh. “Shower with me.”

“No.”

“I missed you.”

Andrew doesn’t respond to that. Neil has been gone one hour, and they live together. He does not know how much time needs to elapse for them to _miss_ each other, but it is certainly not one hour. He isn’t sure he’s capable. He doesn’t intend to find out. Neil Josten cannot be trusted to be alone for much longer than that.

“Pirates,” Andrew says again eventually, after feeling Neil’s toes kneading against his leg, and resisting the temptation to reach out to rub them between his fingers. “Shower.”

“Alright, alright,” grumbles Neil, standing up and stretching and jogging to the shower. _Jogging_. Andrew really has no taste.

He waits two minutes, thinks that’s enough time to maintain his dignity, places his book down carefully on open pages, and surprises Neil in the shower with a tickle to his waist, and latched teeth on his neck. Neil giggles, and Andrew stores the information away in his _Neil box_ while tasting him all over.

A thought occurs to him, and he wants to bring it up with Bee, but so far they’ve managed to avoid talk of his sex life. Some words they had to use when going over his quote unquote trauma, but as far as his active sex life is concerned – Bee is _old_ , and Andrew doesn’t want to send her into an early heart attack.

He wants to ask Neil, but he isn’t sure what answer he’ll get.

He waits until they’re between classes, when they wander towards the benches to waste away their fifteen minute break. In fact waits until they only have eight minutes left, head counting away the time, watching Neil swing his legs under the bench, as Andrew is sat cross-legged next to him, watching the side of his face.

Neil is quiet, almost knowing.

Asshole.

Andrew says, “Do you know me?”

Neil’s legs stop swinging. He says, “What does that mean?”

Andrew looks away.

Neil says, “I know some of you. I think. I like to think I know quite a lot of you. I don’t think we ever know other people entirely.”

“How.”

“How do I know you?”

“Hmm.”

“I dunno.”

“Eloquent.”

“No, I dunno, I mean, this has been slow. I’m not complaining.” Neil’s voice takes on a thoughtful air, as they face the same direction, watching students pass uncaring like waves rocking back and forth at sea. “I mean getting to know each other, has been slow. You knew all my lies, and then you knew all my secrets. It was different with you, I think. I had to tell you. You are – more quiet. Again, not complaining.” Andrew glances to the side to check Neil is smirking, then looks away again. “How do you know me?” Then, “Andrew?”

Andrew rests back on his hands. He says, “Observation. The skill to be able to tell when people are _lying_.” He inflects a teasing tone into his voice that he reserves for Neil, and is rewarded with a huff of laughter. “I don’t know.”

“Repetition,” muses Neil. “The act of doing something repeatedly until you can predict something.”

“Ah,” says Andrew. “Predictability. The good basis for every lasting relationship.”

“Good thing we’re not in a relationship.”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t think we’re predictable.”

“Josten, you’re contradicting yourself.”

“No, I mean –” Neil tucks a leg under his knee, keeps the other swinging, and leans forward a little, like he’s stretching out. “I don’t think we’re predictable in a bad way. I mean I think we’re like singular, whole people, right? If you observe people enough you can work out what that whole person is. Like, are they afraid? Kind? Brave?”

“Are you just listing Hogwarts houses.”

“You know I don’t really know what that is. I’m not done. I mean – everyone boils down to something that matters most to them. For you I think it’s protecting people who matter to you.”

Andrew glares at him. “Is it,” he says crossly, although he knows it is.

“Yep,” says Neil. He looks at Andrew for the first time. “What’s mine?”

Andrew uncrosses his legs and hops off the bench. “Being a pain in my ass. We’re gonna be late for class.”

Later, when Andrew is kissing delicately across the back of Neil’s neck, half asleep and Kevin snoring gently on the other side of the room, he murmurs, “I don’t know what you are.”

Neil’s whole body shrugs, but gently, like he doesn’t want to dislodge Andrew’s lips. He says, “I’m not sure I have one. I mean, I’m not sure Neil does. I think Nathaniel was frightened, desperate to survive, brutal. I don’t want – Neil – to be like that.”

Andrew shifts Neil’s shirt to the side and kisses his shoulder. “You’re coming back for me,” Andrew reminds him, biting the skin a little as a reminder.

“I am,” Neil agrees, voice soft as they succumb to sleep.

Andrew watches Neil for the next few weeks, waiting for an answer. He thinks he has a few guesses, shares them with Bee who says, “Why does Neil need to be one thing?”

“It was his theory.”

Bee makes a rare joke. “Maybe his thing is being narrow-minded.”

Andrew almost laughs.

It’s too true.

He watches him at practise, in the library, watching a movie, eating dinner, chatting shit with Kevin, in bed below him. He’s narrow-minded to the point of impossible precision, so Andrew enacts an experiment.

He’s grinding down, and enjoying watching little points of pleasure blossom out over Neil’s face, his chest, and says, “How was Spanish class,” thrusting above him, grinding their clothed cocks together.

Neil’s eyebrows come together, but he’s otherwise quiet, eyes closed, and says, “Huh?”

Andrew keeps moving over him. “Tell me what you learned.”

Neil opens his eyes, squints up at him, panting and gripping his biceps. “Is this a kink?’

Andrew reaches down and bites his earlobe. “No. Tell me a verb.”

Neil just breathes into his ear, for a long time, before he says, “Don’t know any Spanish,” and comes deliciously beneath him, rocking Andrew over the edge.

So, he’s single-minded. But that doesn’t feel quite right, either.

Andrew is decidedly not. Sometimes he feels overwhelmed by the amount of channels pushing through his mind at any one time, sometimes images, sometimes memory, sometimes observation, sometimes meaningless facts, sometimes analysis. Sometimes it’s so much he goes quiet, can’t speak, and sometimes it’s the opposite, sometimes he needs to drag Neil somewhere quiet, or his family to the club, or joins Kevin and Neil at night practise, just to smash balls down the court.

Sometimes Andrew feels so quiet it’s _blissful_.

He didn’t think he’d ever become a person to use that word, even in his own head.

It happens with Neil, the most. He thinks that’s partly why he keeps him, why he lets him stay. Everything feels quiet, most often, when Neil is there. He thinks it’s partly knowing Neil is safe; but he has to acknowledge it’s partly how well Neil knows him.

They’re eating take out on the sofa, and watching tv; Andrew is having a quiet day, and walked away from the Foxes’ offer of plans without a word. He was reading in bed when Neil came back half an hour later, bags in his hands. Neil had said, “I walked with them to the restaurant, got your favourites.”

So they’re sat on the sofa, and Andrew hasn’t spoken all day, but he’s not paying attention to the cartoon Neil’s put on, and he manages to say, “Quiet.”

Neil turns to him. “Hmm. You’re quiet?” Andrew doesn’t respond. “Well, that’s ok.” Andrew pokes his fork into his food some more. “Or do you mean I’m quiet?” Andrew nods. Neil hums. After a minute he says, “Can I touch you?” Andrew nods. “Here?” Andrew nods. “Ok.” Neil settles himself pressed up against Andrew’s side, and starts talking about his day. What he learned in class, what he ate at lunch, how much of an ass Jack was at practise, what kind of car Matt wants to buy, Aaron’s rap rendition of Kevin’s dietary requirements, Dan’s new hairstyle that she practised on Nicky.

Andrew eventually finishes his food, a while after Neil has, and places his empty containers on the coffee table, and then his feet tucked up next to him, then his head on Neil’s shoulder, and eventually falls asleep to the sound of Neil reciting Russian verbs.

Neil knows him. He’s not sure what to make of that.

So, he gets an idea. And he’s not nervous about it, because he’s not sure he gets nerves. He’s not nervous when he goes to the airport. He just fears flying. Sitting in the airport, anticipating the flight. It’s not that he’s nervous about what’s going to happen. He understands what’s going to happen. It’s more a thing he blames on _second Andrew_.

Bee asked once, “Who’s second Andrew?”

“He’s the asshole,” Andrew replies. Then he corrects, “No, that’s not right. I’m the asshole. Second Andrew is the scaredy cat.”

Bee frowned, and scribbled a lot at that one.

Second Andrew is afraid of heights, the word _please_ , has days when he can’t talk, when he doesn’t want to share a bed with Neil, when he can’t let Aaron out of his sight.

First Andrew, primary Andrew, favourite Andrew, takes Neil to Columbia for the weekend.

Neil looks worried, sat in the passenger seat next to him, so Andrew says, “What do you look so worried for.”

Maybe it’s Andrew’s tone, but Neil smirks a little. “Last time you brought me here it was to tell me you weren’t sure we should continue with what we were doing.”

Andrew remembers. “Blame second Andrew,” he says off-handedly, grabbing Neil’s hand and holding it on his thigh possessively.

Neil is grinning. “Such an asshole that second Andrew.”

Neil knows him, so much of him.

“Just wanted a break,” Andrew says.

Neil hums, and doesn’t reply. He doesn’t believe him, must know there’s an ulterior motive, as there is to all of Andrew’s actions, but he relaxes into his seat, and links his fingers with Andrew’s, and winds down his window.

They sit on the floor of the living room, passing back and forth whisky, and watching disney films they don’t pay attention to, and make out lazily, and order food, and eat some of it, and then Andrew says, “I want to ask you something.”

“I knew it,” says a tipsy Neil, sitting upright and pointing at him. “I knew it, you asshole! You _did_ bring me here to talk. This is where we _talk._ I hate it.”

Andrew takes the glass they’re sharing out of Neil’s hand and downs the end of it. Neither of them are all that drunk, they just haven’t eaten enough. “You’re drunk,” Andrew says affectionately, kissing the edge of Neil’s lips when he doesn’t quite make it to the centre.

“No you,” says Neil with a smirk.

They turn the tv off, the lights, lock all the doors, and stumble upstairs, and into the bathroom, and into the bed, and Neil whispers in the dark, “Good thing or bad thing.”

Andrew says, “Neither.”

Neil rubs his face against Andrew’s neck and says, “No breaking up, ok?”

Andrew sighs laboriously and wraps his arms around him. “Ok. Ridiculous.” And they fall asleep with the immediacy of the rather-more-drunk-than-believed, Andrew with the ridiculous thought spinning round his head that the worst thing drunk Neil can imagine is losing him.

The next day Neil gets up, and makes coffees, and breakfast, and showers them both, rubbing extra hard into Andrew’s hair as Andrew yawns against Neil’s neck, and then settles them on the sofa.

“Ok,” Neil says, second coffee of the day in hand, “Talk.”

“I’m not awake,” Andrew says into his second cup of coffee.

Neil turns to the side, and puts the tv on, and an hour later, he turns it off again, takes the empty mug from Andrew’s hand, and says, “I’m kinda going crazy here.”

Andrew says, “I need more information.”

“ _You_ need more information? What about?”

“You.”

“Um. Well. What do you want to know? Spoiler alert you kind of already know everything.”

“Who taught you spoiler alert.”

“I know things.”

“I don’t know what you are.”

Neil scrunches his face up as he struggles to work out what they’re talking about, and then his mouth opens on understanding, then pauses, then he says, “I thought we agreed – maybe Neil isn’t one thing.”

“It’s weird referring to yourself in third person.”

“I know. Try being Neil.”

“Stop it.”

“Ok ok. Go on.” 

“I want to know more about you.” Neil’s face goes a little relaxed and soppy and Andrew affects his best unimpressed look. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“Therapy homework.” It’s not a lie, not exactly.

Neil knows him though, knows sometimes he uses this line when he wants to get out of explaining something, so he smirks, and says, “Ok Andrew. For therapy homework, you want to get to know me better? Aww.” Andrew kicks his foot out and Neil catches it. “What do you wanna do?”

Andrew says, “I feel like you don’t understand the mission.”

“I don’t. Does it matter?”

Andrew considers this, and shrugs.

“I want to get to you know you better too, you know.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m all on the surface, me,” he quips, and Neil laughs.

“Hey, this is a two-way street.”

“What is.”

“This – not being in a relationship, business.”

“Uh huh.”

“What happened to the good old days – truth for a truth?”

“If you’ll shut up for two fucking seconds I think you’ll realise this benefits us both,” Andrew says.

Neil grins, and pulls his foot until Andrew is resting it in his lap, and says, “Ok. What’s the plan?”

Andrew says, “Upstairs.”

Neil raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Ok.” They dislodge Andrew’s feet, and Andrew grabs Neil’s hand, and leads him upstairs.

He starts by taking off his shirt, and then Neil’s, kissing every revealed inch of skin, but not telling Neil what’s ok yet, just watching him stand, still and quiet and waiting, and Andrew asks, “Who’s predictable now?”

Neil huffs. “I never said I thought you were predictable. I never said I wanted something else. Andrew –”

Andrew kisses him quiet.

“I want you to touch me,” he says, ghosting the words across Neil’s skin and shivering as Neil’s hands push over his shoulders.

Neil hums, and then tilts Andrew’s head up for a proper kiss. “What will that achieve?” he whispers, like the smart ass that he is, even though Andrew can feel him trembling a little beneath his fingertips.

“I don’t know,” murmurs Andrew, the most honest he feels he’s ever been.

“Oh,” Neil says, like he understands, which Andrew thinks maybe he does.

Andrew lays on the bed, and pulls Neil next to him, pulls his sweatpants down and unbuttons Neil’s jeans, and once they’re both off he pulls the covers over them a little, and lays down again.

Neil says, “Where should I start?” He sounds nervous. Andrew can’t sympathise.

He says, “What do you need, a map?”

This makes Neil smile, and Andrew sinks into it, kissing him senseless.

Neil starts with tentative fingers, as Andrew had guessed he would, probing over his chest, pushing him gently, slowly, onto his back. Andrew grips Neil’s arms and brings him with him, Neil holding himself up over Andrew. Neil says, “Huh. Nice view.”

Andrew says, “You’re ridiculous.”

Neil smiles at him with his eyes, that thing he does sometimes, and Andrew closes his own as Neil’s fingers feel over his shoulders.

Andrew has never wanted to do this before. This – letting someone thing.

He opens his eyes to watch as Neil lowers his face to Andrew’s chest, and kisses him, running his fingers through Andrew’s chest hair, over his bellybutton, over his pants. Andrew’s breath hitches and Neil looks up, questioningly. Andrew nods, says, “Quiet.”

Neil hesitates, and then smiles, catching up. “I see,” he says, gripping Andrew through the material. “You’re doing so good, Andrew.”

“I changed my mind,” Andrew grits out.

Neil changes track. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything.

Neil says, “You’re _so_ beautiful, Andrew.”

Neil pushes Andrew’s underwear down and sucks him into his throat and Andrew gasps, and grips onto his hair. At least here he can’t say stupid things. But here, in the silence, Andrew’s mind rages again, against intruders touching him, and he pulls Neil’s head up again so he can gasp into a kiss, so Neil can say, breathless, “You’re not just one thing, you know,” kissing his neck, “You’re weird, and funny, and an asshole, and you –” He grips Andrew in his hand, twisting over the head and Andrew sucks in a breath. “I know you, Andrew. I know you and I want you, all the time.”

Andrew says nothing.

Neil takes him into his mouth again, but leaves one hand up by Andrew’s face, and Andrew sucks fingers into his mouth.

It feels like talking.

It feels like the most words that have ever passed between them.

It feels like breathing the same air.

Neil pulls off again, panting, and once again passes Andrew’s own taste into his mouth. Andrew doesn’t mind. He says, “Mm.”

“I just – I’m so desperate for you, Andrew,” Neil whispers against his cheek, an admission, his hand slow over Andrew’s dick, like he’s just feeling him out, and his knee snakes over Andrew’s, not holding him in place, just holding him, and he looks him in the eye, and then says, “I think you’re amazing. I know you think you’re broken – but you forget this is the whole package for me. I’m not waiting for you to change. You know you’re the only one I want.”

Neil twists his hand, speeding up briefly.

Andrew makes a sound he doesn’t think he’s ever made before.

Neil slows down again, whispers in his ear, “I’ve got you,” and Andrew shivers, scratches a little at Neil’s arm in either punishment or desperation, he’s not sure. “I’ve always got you.” Andrew squirms, he feels like his body is going to implode, and he’s floating, somewhere above them, somewhere where he doesn’t quite have the energy to tell Neil to be quiet. So he listens, instead.

“I think my theory was too simplistic,” Neil whispers conversationally, right into Andrew’s ear, hand stabilising him while the other strips Andrew apart. “I think we’re thousands of things, that make us one whole. And we’re collecting them, one at a time.”

Andrew hums, and grips Neil again as he feels something shift in his stomach.

Neil’s hand stops.

He whispers, “Babe, we’re not there yet,” and Andrew pinches his waist.

Neil starts moving his hand again, and this time his own underwear is pulled down, and he’s rubbing himself gently against Andrew’s leg.

Which is irritatingly, impossibly hot.

Andrew would tell him so, but his voice is still floating somewhere above them.

All he can feel is this, Neil’s hand, his words, collecting some of the thousands of pieces between them.

Neil says, again, “You’re beautiful, Andrew,” and, “You’re not broken,” and, “You’re the only one I’m interested in,” and, “Come on, come on, that’s it.”

When Neil finally lets him come, when Andrew lets himself groan until it’s spilling over both of them, it’s to Neil saying, “You’re so good for me,” and later Andrew will feel rather annoyed about that.

He’s sticky, and breathless, and as he comes down, and the wave of euphoria passes through him, he pushes Neil away.

“You are awful,” Andrew says, running a finger through the mess and rubbing it over Neil’s cock in retaliation. Neil squirms, alarmed by the sudden intensity of contact, but Andrew holds him down, trusting Neil to say if he doesn’t want him to. “You are ridiculous. That fucking mouth. I would destroy it if I could.” Andrew pushes his tongue into Neil’s mouth and doesn’t let him breathe again until he comes.

Andrew walks to one end of the room, and grabs boxers and a clean shirt. “I’ve changed my mind,” he snaps.

Neil is sat in bed, languid, one hand on his hair, the other laying in a carefree way on top of the sheets. “Have you,” he says, content, eyes shut.

“Yes,” Andrew says. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Not what you meant when?”

“When I said –” But Andrew stops. He doesn’t have it in him to repeat _When I said I wanted to get to know you better_. “I did not ask for every thought you’ve ever had.”

Neil shrugs, beautiful against Andrew’s bed. Their bed. “You can have that for free.”

Andrew glares at him, annoyed he’s being ignored. “I am not – those things you said.”

“Ok,” says Neil, with a smile.

“Stop smiling.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“I thought we weren’t a _this_.”

“We’re _not_.”

“Ok.” Neil grins, and yawns, and Andrew throws a shirt at his head.

Andrew wanders around the room, picking up things and putting them down again in different places, and taking Neil’s book from the bedside table and putting it in the sink, and taking Neil’s clothes out of his duffle and laying them on the floor next to it, and when he’s been silent for at least a minute, Neil says, “Are you done?”

“Never call me that again,” Andrew says.

Neil reaches out a hand and Andrew hovers over to it, letting Neil pull him back into bed. “Call you what?” asks Neil, wrapping the covers back around them both and holding Andrew against him.

Andrew narrows his eyes. “You know what.”

“Ok,” Neil says sleepily. He looks at Andrew. “You know, I think this has been a very successful mission.”

“You didn’t even understand the mission.”

Neil yawns, and waves a hand between them. “This,” he says. “More.” He snuggles his face against the pillow, and that’s when Andrew thinks he loses him.

Except he doesn’t, does he. Andrew barely sleeps. Instead, he catalogues the new things he’s collected, in the peace and comparative safety of Neil’s heavy-breathing proximity. He catalogues _thinks he finds me beautiful_ , even if it’s accompanied by a little snort in his head. He catalogues _amazing_ and _not broken_ and _whole package_ , and picks through them for flaws, for lies, for anything that doesn’t stand up against – whatever they are. He catalogues the way Neil looked at him while he worked his hands over Andrew’s body, the way his hands worked over Andrew’s skin, the way he held him in his hand, sometimes all at once, sometimes just the tip of him, the expression he’d made when Andrew made that noise, the sound Neil had made when he wrapped those pretty lips around Andrew.

Andrew watches him, and catalogues, tucking the pieces into his _Neil box_ , some of them spilling over into _first Andrew_.

He just looks at Neil as much as he can, and lets himself think, _beautiful_ , and _beautiful_ , and _beautiful_.

By the morning, he’s exhausted. He’s dozed, dreamt, woken in a panic and wrapped his body around Neil, or scooted a few inches away, and he’s watching Neil wake now, those pretty lashes fluttering on his cheeks. Andrew thinks, and thinks, and watches Neil yawn, and says, gently, “Hello, Neil.”

Neil blinks at him. And smiles. “Andrew.”

**Author's Note:**

> shrug?!?!?! i just love them a lot, is all. did this make any SENSE  
> andrew minyard has too many thoughts, so many they don't even make coherent words on the page  
> xxx


End file.
